Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mr. Yamamoto—known among his friends in China by the half-teasing yet not ill-meant nickname "balding young master"—had received a letter from his hometown shortly after returning to Japan stating that his sister would be coming up to Tokyo, and so he was waiting at an inn in Kanda.
On the day before his only sister was finally due to arrive, he could no longer remain still and wait in his second-floor room.
He left the inn and went walking through the town.
He had grown so impatient with waiting.

At storefronts of fruit shops in central Tokyo that seemed to encapsulate all four seasons, wintered-over apples, mandarins ripened to gold, and preserved citrons stood arrayed.
It was late February, and a dimness hung over the town airs.
Mr. Yamamoto—having been long absent from Tokyo—moved past the display windows of modern shops, his attention keenly fixed on the stream of passersby.
When he reached Manseibashi’s vicinity—where once there had been no war memorial statues, no elevated railways, no grand edifices—he found such multitudes of compatriots that unknown men and women alike walked the broad roadway in numbers scarcely conceivable before.
Through this tide of transformed fashions he wove—dodging left and right—advancing with a mind uncertain whether he returned from journeying or had newly embarked upon travel.
Like some solitary tourist wandered over from China to pace Tokyo’s streets alone.

Even so, Mr. Yamamoto himself had returned bearing something distinctly Chinese about him.
From his continental-style, leisurely walk that carried him forward in long strides...

But was it so strange that someone like Mr. Yamamoto—who had lived so long in the Nanshin region—would naturally come to be transformed by a different climate? He had traveled not only to China but initially crossed over to Korea and Manchuria, going to Incheon, Keijo, Mokpo, Weihaiwei, and even as far as Tieling. Of all places in China, Nanjing was where he had liked best. The place where he had stayed the longest was also that old capital.

Even things like Chinese-style ceramics—clumsy yet elegant—and embroidery still caught Mr. Yamamoto’s eye. He also could not forget the dining tables at the restaurants he had frequented with a group. Just as those who have long been to places like France are reminded of Paris at every turn, even as Mr. Yamamoto walked through the town like this, he first recalled February in Nanjing.

What had surprised him upon this return to Japan was how distant his friends in Tokyo had grown.
Some had already died.
There were also those whose new addresses had become unknown.
Even when he did meet old friends, he couldn’t converse with them as he once had.

In such a state—like a foreigner, knowing no one—Mr. Yamamoto waited for his sister.
In his sister’s letter, it was stated that she would be coming out from the cold north for treatment on her nose.
The place called Iwanuma, located about one ri short of Sendai, was Mr. Yamamoto’s hometown.
In this sky, even the gloom of Tohoku could be felt.

Returning to the inn’s second floor, Mr. Yamamoto opened a white suitcase.
The Chinese novel he had brought from there intending to read came out.
It was the renowned Dream of the Red Chamber.
The familiar smell was also there within that Chinese book.

Taking out a volume and reading it while pondering the protagonist named Baoyu written within, before he knew it, his thoughts had shifted to his own life.

He thought of his childhood spent along the Abukuma River.
He thought of his student days.
He thought of the old home in Iwanuma where he was born.
He thought of his father, who as a country doctor had built up quite a large practice; of his late mother, who had borne only him and the sister now coming to Tokyo; and of the numerous half-siblings from different mothers.

As for his second mother, he was rather indifferent toward her; he neither found her particularly bothersome nor felt any particular gratitude.
Unlike his sister, he could not simply watch in silence as his half-siblings grew up so rapidly.

His sister had been a tomboyish girl since her school days.
Though herself selfish, she possessed a temperament that would freely scold even their stepmother or anyone else.
Mr. Yamamoto, being the family heir, could not emulate such behavior.
To this sister came an adopted son of a doctor bearing suitable professional titles.
The eldest of his half-brothers—this one too had now become a promising medical graduate.
Mr. Yamamoto alone stood apart; he had absolutely no intention of succeeding to his father’s profession.

Mr. Yamamoto left home and went from Korea to Manchuria when he was exactly twenty-five years old.
Before setting out for Nanshin for the second time, he had indeed engaged in all manner of varied pursuits.
He became an interpreter, became a school teacher, became a newspaper correspondent, and even became a trade merchant.
He even tried his hand at calligraphy.
He spent a total of twelve years beyond the sea.
As is well known, if one goes abroad or sets foot on battlefields, most people grow accustomed to a dissolute lifestyle.
For someone as timid and overly considerate as Mr. Yamamoto, even that proved impossible.
He too had a period when he lived with a certain woman, and though they spent two or three years together, after parting with her, he never again entertained the thought of having a home.
Wherever he went, he slept and woke at inns.
And he only watched women from afar.
Just as one might gaze at beautiful sunlight from that inn’s window.
Of course, this stemmed from Mr. Yamamoto’s overly considerate nature.
To tell the truth, even though Mr. Yamamoto had experienced loving from his side, he still did not know what it was like to be truly loved, as others did.
Would his whole life end up passing like this?
He thought about that.
Mr. Yamamoto was already thirty-nine.

However, for Mr. Yamamoto, there had been one time when he thought he was loved.

Mr. Yamamoto rubbed his hands alone.
And he turned slightly red.
The reason was that it had happened nine years prior… and because he had been granted but a single kiss from a girl like a sister—one who had been barely seventeen…

That girl was a school friend of his half-sister named Oshin and had been great friends with his dark-skinned logic-loving half-sister.
In Sendai there were schools those girls could have attended—but they went instead to Tokyo where they commuted from the same dormitory.
At that time Mr. Yamamoto had returned from Korea and spent one summer in his hometown.
During summer vacation when all were home Oshin came daily to visit her friend.
When his sisters cried “Brother brother!” in excitement Oshin too called him so—approaching bashfully like she were his own flesh-and-blood sister.

He recalled taking the girls to Ayamegata Coast. He recalled how his half-sister and Oshin had walked through the foaming tide with their arms tightly linked. He recalled how white wet bathing kimonos clung to the girls' bodies. He recalled how bright waves would occasionally come to lap at virginal bare feet. He recalled that back then, the girls' hair was still red, but from his half-sister's perspective, Oshin's hair appeared much darker when she removed her straw hat.

He also recalled how they had gone to Tokyo together while seeing off the girls returning to school. He remembered Oshin staying at his inn for about two days.

It had already become a story from the past. Even after that, Oshin often visited the inn together with his half-sister, but he only ever watched from afar. Around when he resolved to journey to Nanshin for the second time, the girls had graduated from school, grown remarkably, and become like proper young ladies. Oshin’s elegant attire stood out conspicuously even among the many urban-style classmates gathered at the station to see them off. Mr. Yamamoto too went to see them off and parted ways outside the train window.

Had this been love?

Over the passing years, Mr. Yamamoto had developed feelings for many women.
Strangely, the faces of those dear, beloved people he had cherished faded away like smoke as time passed.
The raucous clamor of birds that had been noisily chirping until evening flew off somewhere—just like that—and when he later looked back, not a single one remained lodged in his heart.
Only… a single kiss from nine years prior remained—

The more time passed, the more vividly those pure lips that had parted like flower petals rose in his memory.
Wherever he went, whatever he did, that one thing alone remained unforgettable.
Once when friends in China had gathered to exchange personal stories and someone asked, “What ever became of Mr. Yamamoto?” he answered with solemn gravity that his entire life had been an unbroken chain of unrequited loves.
This became their shared anecdote, and from then on they all took to laughingly calling him “the balding young master.”
Yes—Mr. Yamamoto had spent these years gazing at the now twenty-six-year-old married woman exactly as he had nine years before, waiting for nothing in particular, sleeping and waking alone upon the bedbug-ridden floor of his inn.

At this Tokyo inn, Mr. Yamamoto was not merely waiting for his biological sister.
He also waited for Oshin, who was said to be coming from a cold region to a warmer one while accompanying his sister for her postpartum recovery.

His sister Omi arrived together with Oshin the next day.
By evening, both women were at Mr. Yamamoto’s inn—Omi removing her outdated navy-blue coat, Oshin slipping off her pale gray one.

“If Older Sister hadn’t been here, I couldn’t have come out at all.”

From this manner of speaking, Oshin had matured into what appeared every bit the young madam of one of her hometown’s foremost families—a woman now somehow poised.

Mr. Yamamoto appeared to have forgotten everything.
He rejoiced wholeheartedly at being able to be together with these people after so many years.
Even as he asked about their hometown and began recounting his travels, he intently compared his sister’s plump face as she sat by the brazier with Oshin’s face now styled in a traditional chignon.

“But Omi’s gotten plump too,” Mr. Yamamoto remarked.

“I thought Brother would’ve turned into more of an old man by now,” said Omi, glancing at Oshin. “Men don’t change all that much.”

“But you’ve gone so bald!”

Oshin also gazed at this demeanor Mr. Yamamoto had acquired from his long stay in China,
“Your baldness has been there since way back, Brother.”
She laughed as a young, lively woman would.

Oshin still called Mr. Yamamoto "brother" and referred to Omi as "sister."
At her marital home, she seemed accustomed to interacting with all manner of guests—neither ostentatiously worldly nor awkwardly reserved—possessing a refreshingly straightforward femininity that somehow made hearts flutter.
Compared to the tearfully sentimental “Oshin” of her girlhood days, this old acquaintance before him now seemed like an entirely different person. With her and his sister—whose heavy-lidded gaze likely stemmed from her nasal condition—seated before him, Mr. Yamamoto began recounting stories of the Nanshin region where he had long resided: curious customs that women might find comprehensible, the agreeable lifestyle of Nanjing.

The two women were listening attentively.

“I too came back this time just to meet you all… From over there, I kept wondering—why do people in Japan scurry scurry scurry scurry like this… I’m not someone who can stay here long either… Eventually I’ll return there again… I never imagined I’d get to meet you all like this in Tokyo…”

What was past was past—seeing Oshin’s demeanor suggesting she bore no lingering feelings about it, Mr. Yamamoto was first struck by this.

He even thought that Oshin probably no longer remembered anything from her girlhood days.

Omi and Oshin sat by the brazier, talking while smoking rolled cigarettes in a manner befitting travelers.
When he watched Oshin’s hands—delicate white fingers with a ring on her ring finger—holding a rolled cigarette, Mr. Yamamoto did not think that a woman’s smoking looked bold.
Instead, Oshin’s smoking struck him as spirited.

There are women in this world whom one cannot think ill of, no matter what they do.
According to Mr. Yamamoto, Oshin was exactly one such woman.

Mr. Yamamoto had prepared the adjacent room for the women.
For a day or two after that, feminine laughter never ceased—neither in Mr. Yamamoto’s room nor in the adjacent one.

Around the time when Omi, whose nose was in poor condition, was hospitalized to undergo surgery, Oshin also went to stay at a relative’s house in Tokyo.

Suddenly, Mr. Yamamoto felt lonely.
At times he would borrow a young maid from the inn and take her to the nearby movie theater, sitting in the balcony amidst flower-like electric lights that flickered on and off as he tried to distract himself from such feelings alone.
After the clamorous music of drums, bells, trumpets and such that had been blaring all at once subsided, listening to the clarinet now playing solo, its sound drew his heart not toward the gray film but rather toward the men and women before his eyes.
Every time the electric lights brightened, Mr. Yamamoto gazed at the young couple who seemed so affectionate.
The profile visible from behind, the thick flowing hair, the nape of a woman’s neck, the slender yet full shoulders—gazing at such features, he compared them in his mind to Oshin.
Mr. Yamamoto could imagine her well-shaped bangs and soft cheeks—even if she wasn’t actually there—through sheer force of imagination.

When he watched others’ affection, Mr. Yamamoto found himself thinking all the more intensely. Why hadn’t he held her much more tightly nine years ago? Why had he only kept watching from afar? When she had graduated from school and her marriage destination still remained undecided—why hadn’t he proposed?

Thinking such thoughts, he returned to the inn.
Upon this return to Japan, he had brought back modest savings from China.
There was about two hundred yen—money that could be spent freely.
If it were for her sake, he wouldn't begrudge even the rewards earned through arduous labor.
He resolved to find some way to spend that money.

His sister's treatment proved unexpectedly prolonged.
On the hospital bed, she remained lying on her back, unable to move until the bleeding ceased.
Oshin came visiting nearly every day from her relatives' house.
In the end, Omi grew apologetic and began saying they should stop troubling her.

Even just occasionally meeting Oshin by his sister’s side—who lay there assuming a motionless posture—and exchanging commonplace words brought Mr. Yamamoto joy.
Once his sister recovered and was discharged, once they went shopping at Mitsukoshi and spent a day taking in a Kabukiza performance—Oshin being someone who would eventually return home—

The sun would rise tomorrow morning just as it had risen this morning. A person who is alone remains alone no matter where they go.

If this was life, Mr. Yamamoto could not endure it.

Is there no way to make myself happier? From there, Mr. Yamamoto resolved himself and wrote a letter addressed to Oshin. Oshin, who had been gazing at frozen ground, had expressed a desire to visit the warmer regions around Atami or Ito if possible—a conversation with Omi that Mr. Yamamoto knew about. Oshin’s postpartum period was now well in the past. The infant, born prematurely, had passed away shortly after birth. It didn’t seem that Oshin was someone who couldn’t endure traveling.

He hesitantly sent the letter.

For this trip, he intended to cover all expenses himself, resolved not to let Oshin worry.
He imagined the pleasure of inviting her to a place with hot springs and such.

Though called spring, a morning still winter-like arrived. Mr. Yamamoto went to the full-length mirror in the room and adjusted the collar of his Western-style clothes. He smoothed down the sparse hair on his forehead. Putting on his hat and picking up his travel bag, he hurried from the inn toward Ogawamachi tram stop.

The morning sun began to glisten on the tram window.
Beyond the withered avenue of trees, the streets of Ginza appeared to turn ever so quietly.

Earlier than the appointed time, Mr. Yamamoto arrived at Shimbashi Station.
Passengers trying to board the train and people who had come to see them off were walking here and there beneath the high ceiling.
Mr. Yamamoto too walked about among them, waiting for Oshin to arrive.
Gradually his anxiety grew.
Would she really come?
Would she feel at ease considering a trip alone with him, away from Omi?
Mr. Yamamoto found no reassurance.

Before long, a covered car came and stopped at the bottom of the stone steps before the station.
It was her.

How they must differ in temperament—how they must differ in their ways of holding their hearts—with such people must this world be filled.
There were even those who went to elaborate lengths when planning outings from Tokyo to coastal areas like Inage.
Conversely, there were families who thought nothing of visiting domestic hot springs—families who would travel all the way from Tohoku’s farthest reaches to distant Korea.
Mr. Yamamoto’s anxiety was shattered by Oshin’s cheerful laugh that seemed to spring straight from her heart.
Wearing her usual light gray coat and carrying a Western-style umbrella of the same color, she walked with Mr. Yamamoto from the waiting room toward the ticket gate.

“Brother, I don’t like it when you’re being persistent—but in return, I’ll accompany you anywhere—”

Her eyes seemed to say as much.

Oshin remained utterly vibrant.
Whether walking along the narrow platform or securing their seats in the second-class car of the Kōzu-bound train, there was something effortlessly nimble about her movements—graceful without affectation.

She had until now accompanied her travel-loving father-in-law and husband to places people typically visited for leisure outings.
She had memorized many hot spring resorts and beaches found within the country.
Areas like Kōzu and Odawara were nothing new to her.
As long as there was good company, she thought nothing of traveling a bit farther.

For travelers, it was an ideal fine day.
As the train advanced toward Kōzu, warm, pleasant sunlight filled the compartment.

Mr. Yamamoto took a seat on the side opposite her. At times he would gaze at her bangs or her hands, now free of their pale lavender gloves, as if searching for something—and occasionally his eyes would fix on her with a piercing intensity. Yet there was only cheerful sunlight there… In that light, all he could see was her well-shaped bangs and her white, bare, feminine hands…

No matter where they went, Mr. Yamamoto could only manage the most commonplace conversations. For a little while, they both fell silent and gazed at the scenery outside the window. The conversation began again. Compared to Japan, in that land, pork was astonishingly cheap—eggs could be bought for so little per piece… Hearing this, Oshin laughed cheerfully, just as any housewife would laugh.

The two got off at Kōzu.
By the time they reached there, it was noticeably warmer.
From between the buildings surrounding the station, dark, blackish citrus groves—whose leaves did not fall even at the end of February—could be seen.
Oshin, who had come from colder climes, breathed in the warm southern air with evident delight.
She walked with Mr. Yamamoto toward the inn in front of the station, gazing at the bright sunlight.

Oshin’s elegant appearance easily drew people’s eyes.
Among those who seemed to be spa-bound guests, some turned to look at the pair and whispered among themselves.
The fact that they appeared married made Mr. Yamamoto’s face flush slightly.

Having gone to the inn while waiting for the ship to Atami, the maid made such a remark.

“Madam, shall I have the ship tickets purchased?”

Mr. Yamamoto laughed and said, “She’s not my wife—she’s my sister.”

Oshin also laughed.
This laughter left the maid half-convinced and half-doubting.
Assuming this to be one of those common jests between guests—her eyes seeming to say “Nothing but lovers’ talk”—she stared fixedly at Oshin trying to retrieve her purse from her obi.

Mr. Yamamoto endeavored not to let Oshin spend money.
Before she could take hers out, he placed the money for the premium tickets before the maid.

“Brother, that’s just going to make things awkward.”

Oshin said.

Mr. Yamamoto paid no heed.
From the train fare to everything else—even Oshin’s portion—he covered all of it.
Mr. Yamamoto—thrifty when it came to money—went so far as to cover expenses that weren’t even necessary for this trip, even splurging lavishly on the tea fee at the inn where they’d stopped briefly for lunch.

The time for the steamship to depart came.
It was a ship that would make stops at the ports of Izu.
The two descended the cliff in front of the inn and made their way down to the water’s edge.
The sand they trod sparkled under the sun, so Oshin opened the Western-style parasol in her hand.
The thin silk of the parasol she held up to the sun created soft shadows around her cheeks.
Mr. Yamamoto walked on, as if recalling even distant memories, savoring the pleasure of strolling with her.

Bright waves roared as they surged toward the two of them and shattered before their very eyes.
The tide that receded, leaving white foam on the sand, dried up in the blink of an eye.
Riding on the waves that surged in again, the boatmen launched the barge.
Mr. Yamamoto and Oshin were both carried on the boatmen’s backs and moved to the barge.
Amid the clamor of the waves, the boatmen called and shouted to one another.

Even after boarding the main vessel, Oshin retained her cheerful, refined, and youthful feminine spirit.
Being travel-seasoned, she merely took out items like Zem and Jintan to offer Mr. Yamamoto, herself showing no trace of seasickness.
Occasionally wiping her face with a white silk handkerchief, she chatted and laughed with worldly ease.
At times she spoke as though addressing Omi.

Beside such a person, Mr. Yamamoto sat down with reserved politeness and returned to the sensation of walking along the Shōbu field coast with Oshin and his half-sister in days gone by. The sea took nine years off Mr. Yamamoto. Back then, everyone had felt as though something wonderful was waiting just ahead. Mr. Yamamoto, in exactly that frame of mind, gazed out from the ship at the blue sea toward Atami.

Eager to return Oshin to her former state of mind, Mr. Yamamoto took her to Atami, but it was in vain.
So this time he invited her toward Ito.

The following afternoon found them once more aboard a steamship bound for Ito.

The weather was even finer than the previous day.
They continued their pleasant voyage.
The sea appeared a deeper blue still.
At the peninsula’s southern tip, it had grown warm enough for red camellias to bloom already, and a soft southern breeze rustled pleasantly through the air.
Beyond the crystalline sky’s expanse, Oshima itself took form.

Few passengers remained shut inside their cabins.
Most people had come out onto the deck, basking in the springlike light and warmth.

For a while, Mr. Yamamoto left Oshin’s side and wandered around beneath smokestacks and alongside painted windows.
When he returned to where Oshin was, she leaned against thick ropes laid out on deck, gazing at the land from the ship.
Her back figure—only her profile slightly visible—revealed feminine contours from the nape covered by thick hair down to her shoulders.
The shape of her bangs seen from the side was also pleasing.
Beside her were female passengers leaning against one another, their eyes showing voyage fatigue.
There were married couples too, basking in the sun while looking this way.

Before long, Oshin turned toward where Mr. Yamamoto was sitting and smiled.
“What splendid weather we’re having,” and “The Izu sea is simply marvelous, isn’t it?”—she made remarks along these lines.
Without looking at anything in particular, she had a youthful look in her eyes.
She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying traveling with this kind, older man of much experience—one who had even been to Nanshin—as though it brought her genuine delight.
Once again, she sat down beside Mr. Yamamoto and gazed at the sea.

This composure of Oshin’s remained unchanged even when they arrived in Ito and disembarked from the barge onto land.
Relying on Mr. Yamamoto like a companion on an Ise pilgrimage, she followed along toward the hot spring inn with a light laugh.

When they went up to the second floor of the inn and looked around, the two felt they had come quite far.

“Madam, your yukata is right here.”

Oshin paid little heed to the maid’s words. After changing into the yukata, she went alone to the bath to forget the fatigue of travel.

Before long, Oshin returned. In the corner of the room stood a mirror stand.
She sat down before it and smoothed down wet hair.

Mr. Yamamoto had already come up from the bath.
With a large table placed at the center, Oshin too relaxed in her stylish yukata.
The rolled cigarette Yamamoto offered she placed between her index and middle fingers and smoked in a way befitting a traveler.

For dinner, Mr. Yamamoto served a small amount of beer.

“Would you care for some as well?”

Oshin accepted the cup offered by the maid and had her pour the sweetly foaming beer.
Mr. Yamamoto’s eyes seemed to say, “Well—Oshin here is quite the conversationalist,” yet it was he whose face flushed red.
Oshin placed the sake in the cup reflected by the electric light before her and, all the while, smoked a cigarette.
The stories of Mr. Yamamoto’s Yangtze River voyages entertained her.
Unlike Mr. Yamamoto, she wasn’t so reserved all the time.

Even so, Oshin did not lose her femininity.
That, on the contrary, made her appear all the more like the young madam she was when at home.

She was a young married woman whom one couldn’t think ill of no matter what she did.

Mr. Yamamoto repeated to himself.

That night as well, he turned toward the wall alone and, dreaming only of things from nine years ago, drifted into a lonely sleep.

The next day passed in much the same way, and on the morning of the fourth day they resolved to return from Ito.
Had time allowed, Mr. Yamamoto would have wished to take Oshin not merely to Atami and Ito but further afield—to Shimoda's harbor, even as far as Oshima itself—yet such liberty eluded him.

At their Ito inn, Mr. Yamamoto heard local tales.
One told of a man who had brought a woman to visit caves near Irozaki.
While touring by boat, this man fell into the sea and perished with five hundred yen still in his pocket.
Only the woman survived.
They said the waters ran too deep for his corpse to ever surface.
Hearing this story, Mr. Yamamoto found himself unable to dismiss it as another's misfortune.
Overcome by dread, he hastened with Oshin toward the Kōzu-bound steamer.

By the time the steamship left Ito’s coast, Oshima could faintly be seen. That day, unlike during their outbound journey, the entire sea was covered in water vapor. The distant horizon shone white. Before long, Oshima—which had seemed to float up abruptly—vanished as if erased. It was as though the island were bidding farewell to Mr. Yamamoto, who was returning home after squandering money and tormenting himself, with a parting wish for his safe voyage...

On their return trip, they did not stop anywhere. They merely waited while the steamship made its cargo-loading stops at various ports.

After a day aboard, even the ship grew tiresome.
The sailors, who had no pleasures beyond eating and drinking, envied the passengers disembarking at every port they visited.
If they spotted a familiar face on the port’s shore, they called out from the barge and then rowed back to the main ship again.
Even to Mr. Yamamoto, who did not dislike ships, the monotonous sound of steam gradually became noticeable.
The passengers all lay down inside the cabin and tried to sleep, even if they couldn’t.
Oshin also seemed slightly tired; she stretched out her legs clad in white tabi socks and draped a thin silk cloth over her face.

In this manner, they approached Kōzu.
By the time the voyage was concluding, Oshin—bringing up stories of Atami and Ito—began showing signs of wanting to return quickly to Omi in Tokyo.

The steamship arrived at Kōzu.
The passengers scrambled to board the barge.
Both Mr. Yamamoto and Oshin hurried toward the shore.

Even after taking seats in the second-class compartment bound for Shinbashi, the two still showed little inclination to speak.
They would exchange two or three words only to lapse back into silence.
They did not even try to look out the window.
Having been jostled continuously by the ship and then again by the train, Mr. Yamamoto could do nothing but doze off as they traveled.
At times his head struck against the windowpane.
He could no longer hold his body upright.

They arrived at Shinbashi while daylight still lingered.
With a weight pressing down from above and a muddled state where coherent thought eluded him, Mr. Yamamoto thanked Oshin and parted ways as she boarded the rickshaw.

Over the course of this four-day trip, Mr. Yamamoto had come to feel this profoundly.
The girl who had once tied her hair with an egg-colored ribbon had, before he knew it, developed a full bosom—the rich swell of her breasts had grown so pronounced that one could imagine their shape even through her kimono.
Compared to that, he could not help but pity his own endlessly stagnant life.
Not only his sharp-tongued friends from China, but even his old acquaintance Oshin-chan would call him a "balding young master."
He began to feel that he would be laughed at with remarks like that.
When he thought of that old kiss he had long remembered upon returning to the Kanda Inn, Mr. Yamamoto became so sad he could not even cry.

After about two days had passed, Omi was safely discharged from the hospital and came back to Mr. Yamamoto’s place.

“How was the Izu trip?” Omi asked her brother repeatedly.

“It was truly wonderful… That… you know… the best trip I’ve had in recent times…”

“Oshin made me terribly envious… In return, you’ll treat me to Kabukiza.”

Omi was not one to remain still for long.

From the evening of the theater outing, Oshin also accompanied Omi and joined them at Mr. Yamamoto’s inn.

On the day when the group of women were finally to depart for their hometown, Mr. Yamamoto was unable to stay still since morning.
Having added not only chirimen souvenirs from China but even items purchased in Tokyo, he went to the neighboring room and found only Oshin there.

Oshin wore a genuinely pitiful expression as she hesitated to accept the items Mr. Yamamoto had presented there.

“After all, you took me to all those places…” she said.

“No, please keep them as a memento of the trip.”
“I’m saying it’s nothing to be embarrassed about… Look, before I went to China, when you all graduated and said you were returning home, we made just the same kind of fuss as you saw today… Someone like you, Oshin, must have long forgotten those days by now.”

“Brother, do you really think I could forget something like that?”

“When I went to see you off at the station, so many of your friends had come… and then there was even someone who arrived later and wept by the window…”

“I remember.”

“What’s this… If I had asked you to marry me back then… would you have come to me…”

“If it were Brother’s place, anyone would go—”

Oshin laughed in a youthful, lively voice—so much so that the large round chignon shook.

＊ ＊ ＊

After seeing the sisters off to Ueno and returning once more, Mr. Yamamoto found himself utterly alone on the second floor of the inn.
In the corner of the room, the large China suitcase was merely waiting for him.
The money he had toiled to earn and saved as surplus was spent without knowing what it was spent on.

Mr. Yamamoto went to the window and gazed at the smoke-like cloud floating in the distant town sky.
For a long time, he stood there vacantly.